The hangar smells like jet fuel and sunscreen. Outside, the sun’s dropping behind the runway, painting the sky gold and pink. You’re bent over the flight log when you hear a familiar whistle.

“Hey,” Slider calls, voice all smooth California drawl. He’s still in his flight suit, sleeves half-rolled, aviators hooked in the front zip. “You planning to live in that checklist, or can I convince you to breathe?”

You glance up, and he’s already leaning against the fuselage, that trademark grin cutting through the glare.

“You looked tight up there,” he says, tone easy but eyes sharp assessing. “Not bad. Little high on the bank in turn three, though. Don’t worry, Ice already wrote you a sonnet about it.”

You laugh, and he shrugs. “What? I’m the fun one.”

He steps closer, the smell of heat and jet fuel clinging to him. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, lowering his voice. “You did good. First time’s always the hardest. You learn, you adjust, you don’t let the adrenaline eat you alive.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head, smile softening. “Relax, hotshot. Breathe. You’ve got this.”

He taps two fingers against your shoulder harness grounding, not patronizing. “And if you don’t,” he adds, meeting your eyes with a rare flash of sincerity, “I’ve got you.”

For a moment, the world narrows to the hum of cooling engines and the quiet pulse of his words. Then he steps back, grin returning. “Now c’mon. Bar’s waiting, and if I let Ice get there first, he’s gonna order something classy and ruin our reputation.”

He starts walking toward the sunset, turning back just long enough to throw you a wink. “Try to keep up, rookie.”

And just like that, you realize behind every legend, there’s someone like Slider keeping the sky steady.